Only Teardrops
by MemoriesOfBetrayal
Summary: A year has passed since the fall and John is finally attempting to move on. Then Sherlock returns and his life is thrown into chaos again - John is thankful but Sherlock refuses to explain anything. How long until John reaches breaking point? Johnlock.
1. The Decision

**ONLY TEARDROPS**

**DISCLAIMER: I don't own Sherlock, or anything else you could possibly recognise :)**

**WARNING: Johnlock. Don't like it, just don't read it ;)**

**If you have a moment look up the song this was named after – Only Teardrops by Emmelie De Forest. It is an amazing song!**

**CHAPTER ONE: THE DECISION**

**xXxXxXx**

"_Eye for eye, why tear each other apart?_

_Please tell me why, why do we make it so hard?_

_Look at us now, we only got ourselves to blame._

_It's such a shame._

_Tell me how many times can we win and lose?_

_How many times can we break the rules?_

_Between us, only teardrops._

_How many times do we have to fight?_

_How many times can we get it right?_

_Between us, only teardrops."_

_Only Teardrops – Emmelie De Forest_

**xXxXxXx**

One year. It had been a whole year since the day. That day. The day it happened. It was hard for him to believe it had been an entire year; a year of eating, sleeping, working… a year of surviving. Surviving without him. John wasn't sure how a year had passed so quickly, it felt like only a week ago that he was watching Sherlock take that final step. It couldn't have been a year – how had he survived an entire year of this?

John sighed, scrubbing at his eyes with his left hand. In his right he cradled a cup of tea, the warm liquid slightly comforting against his palm. He sat in his comfy armchair by the fireplace, legs out straight and crossed at the ankles. The fireplace behind him was cold, empty. The armchair that sat across from him was the same way. Cold, empty. That was how John himself felt too. The tea did little to help. It seemed nothing could.

He stood and headed toward the kitchen, unable to stomach any more tea. Glancing at his watch he noticed it was nearly time to go, so he tipped the rest of the tea down the sink and sat the cup on the counter. He grabbed his jacket, doing a quick pat-down to ensure he had his keys, wallet and phone. Then he headed downstairs to where he was to meet Mrs. Hudson.

She was already waiting by the door, an arm full of flowers tickling her nose. She smiled sadly when she saw John, greeting him as cheerfully as she could manage.

"Ready to go then, are we?" John asked.

Mrs. Hudson nodded. "As ready as I'll ever be, dear."

The two exited the building together and John hailed a passing taxi. He slid in first and his landlady followed, setting the flowers on the seat in the middle. John told the taxi where they were going and he carefully edged them out into the flow of traffic.

They were both silent for a few minutes, both staring out their respective windows. John watched as the familiar buildings flew by, not even bothering to pay all that much attention to his surroundings. He tried not to concentrate on anything – on the thoughts that plagued his mind, on the memories of that day a whole year ago, on the idea that it had only been one year, and he still had many more to go. How many years would he have left? He hated to think that the rest of his life would be trying to survive, trying to get through just another day on his own. That all his days would be filled with trying to get past the loneliness that seemed to surround him, to engulf him. Would it ever get any easier? Would easier mean he was forgetting? Or that he didn't care enough? He didn't want it to get easier – he didn't want to forget. But he didn't want to continue on like this.

"It's been a year."

It took him a moment to register what Mrs. Hudson had said. When he glanced over to her she was watching him carefully, concern obvious. "Yeah," John agreed, "Doesn't feel like it."

"No it doesn't. It feels like just yesterday that he was running about, causing trouble and angering the police. Do you still keep in touch with that detective fellow? The one that was always coming around?"

"Lestrade, yeah. I talk to him every now and then. We don't really run in the same circles now that Sherlock isn't-" John paused. "Isn't around anymore."

Mrs Hudson smiled. "That's good. He was quite nice, even to someone as… challenging as Sherlock could be."

John barked out a laugh. "Lestrade was a good friend to Sherlock, that's true. Took a lot of crap from him too."

"I think we all did that dear."

John nodded. "But somehow he was worth it."

Mrs. Hudson was quiet again, but she nodded in agreement. John watched as she returned to looking out the window, watching London pass by.

They reached the cemetery a few minutes later. John payed the cabbie while Mrs. Hudson waited, and the two of them entered through the gates together. The path to Sherlock's grave was a familiar one by now, but Mrs. Hudson still reached for his hand as they walked. John was thankful for the action and he gave her hand a slight squeeze to let her know. He liked visiting Sherlock with her – she gave him a reason to hold himself together. He couldn't count the amount of times he'd just wanted to break down here, to scream and shout and curse Sherlock to the heavens for what he did. But he could never do that, and Mrs. Hudson's presence gave him one more reason to give himself. Some days it felt like he was just making them up.

As the simple black tombstone came into view Mrs. Hudson's grip tightened, before she dropped his hand completely. She hurried forward to set the bouquet against the cold stone, placing a soft kiss atop it before stepping back. John smiled as she did so and approached the stone himself, simply touching it with his fingertips. He stepped back in line with Mrs. Hudson.

They both stood silently for several minutes. Both had been to this site many times, and had said all they could think of to say. Neither wanted to repeat themselves. John stared intently at the black stone, tracing the shape of it, the individual letters.

SHERLOCK HOLMES

After what seemed like an eternity Mrs. Hudson turned away and started back toward the gates. John paused for a few moments longer, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. When he opened them again he spoke.

"It feels like saying goodbye all over again."

Why did he keep doing this to himself? Why did he return to this site again and again, when every time he saw that stone it felt as though a dagger were driving itself into his heart. He knew what numb felt like – numb was after the war, when he had nothing. Numb was unfeeling, cold, empty. He wished he could feel numb at this moment, but all he could feel was the red-hot knife of loss. As if it wasn't bad enough that the world had to lose a man as great as Sherlock, but he had lost him as well. Sherlock wasn't a great man to John, he was a good one. He remembered Lestrade once saying, when John had asked him why he put up with Sherlock, that he would hopefully one day become a good man. John could see what he meant. Sherlock had been the best man he'd ever known, even if Sherlock himself had never seen it.

John said nothing more as he turned away from the grave, marching back across the grounds to Mrs. Hudson. The two hailed a cab and were soon on their way home. This trip wasn't as quiet at the drive there.

"I can't keep doing this, John." Mrs. Hudson reached for his hand, cradling it in both of hers softly.

John frowned. "What do you mean?"

"This!" She gestured wildly behind them. "The mourning, holding on to the memory of him so closely. He was a fantastic young man, but it has to be time to let it go."

"No," John was shaking his head immediately. "I can't do that Mrs. Hudson, I just… Sherlock was… I don't think I can just yet."

The woman beside him smiled sympathetically. "I know it's hard, dear. He was special to everyone."

"You don't… you don't understand. He wasn't- I'm not-"

"I know. But Sherlock wouldn't want us moping about, wishing he were here. He'd want us to get on with it and do something useful." She was rubbing her thumb in comforting circles on the back of his hand now, still watching him carefully.

"I don't care what he'd want!" John snapped, "He's dead!"

It was only a split second before Mrs. Hudson's face crumpled. Both hands flew to her face, leaving John feeling worse than ever.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean that. I just…" He watched as she pulled her hands downward to watch him with watery eyes. "I just don't know how."

There was silence after that admission. How were you just supposed to get over someone? Sherlock had left a large hole in John's life – he'd been more than just a flatmate. He'd been a colleague, a friend – John's best friend. If there was one constant in his life, John knew it was Sherlock Holmes. Unpredictable, flighty, ever-moving Sherlock Holmes. John still wasn't used to being alone in that flat. He would always expect to see Sherlock – curled on the sofa, hunched over John's laptop, sitting by the fire with a cup of tea that John himself had made. He still sometimes went to make two cups. He'd barely moved anything about, he just couldn't bring himself to change it. He was never this careful about it when Sherlock was alive. But now it seemed like it was all he had left.

"Maybe…" Mrs. Hudson was speaking again, quieter this time. "Maybe it's time for you to get a new flatmate."

Silence. John could barely understand the words she was saying to him. A new flatmate? But where would they sleep? Where would they sit? There were only two bedrooms – his and Sherlock's. There was no room for a third arm chair. Would they mess with Sherlock's experiments? Would they make the apartment smell different? The apartment was only built for two – there was no room for a new flatmate.

Mrs. Hudson was watching him, holding her breath. When John didn't speak, she continued. "I know you're trying hard, dear, but you're working yourself too hard. You could really use someone to help you pay the rent, and maybe to liven that place up a little. You can't live there alone forever."

John considered it, he really did. A new flatmate. It felt as though he would be trying to replace his old flatmate – which is exactly what it was. Replacing a flatmate. That he could do. But no one could replace Sherlock, the strange, eccentric, and ever-quirky man that seemed to change John's life completely. No one could replace his best friend. Would getting a new flatmate be trying to replace Sherlock? What would Sherlock think about John finding someone else? John didn't need to consider that for long. Of course Sherlock would never agree to it. John knew the man well enough to know that Sherlock wouldn't want anyone else in their place.

But maybe Mrs. Hudson had a point. He was working as many shifts as he could at the surgery, but he still had to make time for cases. He wasn't a detective by any means, but he liked to help Lestrade out with some of the harder ones. He'd watched Sherlock do it so many times he was able to pick some of the clues others couldn't. Some of the clues. He knew, were Sherlock there, he would have some of the cases solved with just a glance. John liked to think he helped the police find the conclusion, even if he wasn't as bright as Sherlock. There was no way he could maintain this while working enough hours to pay the rent and keep food on the table. Mrs. Hudson had helped him out a lot, but he could let her keep doing it.

What would a new flatmate really mean? How much would it impact on the flat? He couldn't stand throwing everything of Sherlock's out, would his flatmate want to do that? What kind of person would they be? Surely after having shared the space with Sherlock no one else could ever compare. But would they have to?

John groaned. He was thinking too hard about this. A new flatmate didn't mean a new best friend, it didn't mean replacing Sherlock. Surely he wouldn't be able to stop himself from comparing them in his mind, noticing all the differences between his new flatmate and his old one. But maybe, just maybe, if he found the right person, it may work.

He smiled slightly as Mrs. Hudson who was still watching him. "I'll look into it."

The woman nodded, giving him an encouraging smile. "That's all I ask."

John didn't say another word for the rest of the trip, just stared out the window. A new flatmate. Maybe it was a good idea, it could help him move on with his life. He could never forget Sherlock, and no one would ever replace his friend, but maybe he could get past it all. Moriarty was dead, there was no threat on his part, no chance of it all coming back in his life unexpectedly. Maybe he could put it all to rest and those images of Sherlock, perched on the edge of the building, falling, still and silent… maybe he'd get a break from them. Maybe he'd be able to think about the better things – that spark he always got in his eye at a new problem, the flair of his coat behind him as he rushed down the stairs and into the night, the breathless laughs they shared in the brief moments of relief… Maybe he could think about these things without picturing the stillness, feeling the cold.

Maybe it would be a good thing.

**xXxXxXx**

**Many thanks to the awesome KokoMini for being my beta for this, even though she hasn't seen Sherlock (Blasphemy! I know). But for being my strict grammar buddy, and putting up with my lengthy explanations of scenes and situations, thanks.**

**Please leave a review and let me know what you think :D**


	2. The Case

**ONLY TEARDROPS**

**DISCLAIMER: I don't own Sherlock, or anything else you could possibly recognise :)**

**WARNING: Johnlock. Don't like it, just don't read it ;)**

**CHAPTER TWO: THE CASE**

**xXxXxXx**

"_So lately, been wonderin'_

_Who will be there to take my place._

_When I'm gone you'll need love_

_To light the shadows on your face."_

_Wherever You Will Go – The Calling_

**xXxXxXx**

As soon as they returned to Baker Street John hurried inside and up the steps, leaving Mrs. Hudson to pay the fare for the cab. As soon as he was inside he closed the door behind him, leaning against it for a moment. He felt as though he could breathe again. He glanced around, noting the armchairs still in the same place, the papers and books that covered nearly every surface, a used teacup on the coffee table. It still looked as though two people lived there – it was just too much mess for one person.

Shuffling over to the coffee table, he picked the cup up and returned it to the kitchen. Back in the living room the piles of newspapers that covered the table were collected together and sat on the floor. He picked up a few books, returning them to the shelves haphazardly. Glancing around, it didn't feel all that different. John spent the rest of the afternoon tidying the things he had never bothered to touch before. He found a few boxes of Sherlock's equipment – microscopes, beakers, test tubes, notebooks and Bunsen burners. He knew Mrs. Hudson had boxed these just after the funeral, but she hadn't known what to do with them. Now that he had them, John wasn't sure what to do with them either. Did he pack them away? Did he sell them? Donate them? Some lab would probably be interested in the notebooks of theories and results, and any college around would love the rest of it. He wasn't sure if he could bring himself to just give away Sherlock's things though.

Cleaning also meant he came across a few of the things remaining from experiments he hadn't yet discovered. In on the very top corner cupboards in the kitchen he discovered a colony of… something growing, and it seemed to have taken over the entire place. That would explain the strange smell from the last few months. He'd cleaned out most of the experiments long ago – he may have been reluctant to move Sherlock's stuff, but leaving a bag of pinkie-fingers in the microwave was just a little too much, even for him. And the bowl of toenails was not a welcome addition to the refrigerator. Most of what remained now was papers, notes, case files that had never been returned to Lestrade, newspaper clippings, and various odds and ends. John piled them all on the desk, setting aside the case files to return to Scotland Yard.

It took him several hours to tidy all of the living area. Once he was done he paused to look over it. It was… different. It didn't feel right at all – the place was definitely too empty now. He'd never seen it this bare. He could still remember when they'd first moved in; by the time he had arrived Sherlock had already moved in and had his stuff everywhere. John hadn't been sure about the chaos at first but now 221B Baker Street just didn't look right. Sherlock had made the flat more of a home than he had, and now without the clutter it felt foreign.

Feeling uncomfortable, John headed up the stairs to his own room. The living/kitchen area of the flat didn't look the same anymore, and it made him feel as though even he shouldn't enter. How would a new flat mate change all this? Would they be messy? Would they keep it tidy and clean and sparse? The only area he hadn't touched was Sherlock's bedroom. That would be a job for tomorrow. He figured it wouldn't have as much of an effect on him to clean when it was so rarely used. More often than not Sherlock didn't sleep at night, though when he did he usually crashed on the sofa. His bedroom had only the basics in it, and hopefully that would mean it would be easier. He couldn't help but wonder what a new flat mate would do with that space. Would they use the bedroom as a normal person did? Would they spend nights on the sofa? He hoped not. The sofa was theirs. His and Sherlock's. He didn't want someone new to mess with their things.

Groaning at the immaturity and possessiveness of his thoughts, John opened his laptop. It was getting late by this point, but he wasn't hungry, and he felt that any attempt for sleep would be useless. He opened his blog straight away, looking immediately to the counter to the right. 124 hits. In the past week. He remembered when he'd get 2000 hits just overnight, when Sherlock was at his very best. Or just after… when he checked it after, it had been at an amazing 11097 hits. Everyone was interested once Sherlock was dead. Now… now no one cared who John Watson was. The man was ordinary, nothing special on his own and he just didn't have Sherlock to raise that interest in people. No one cared about boring. There were still a few faithful readers who had stuck with him, reading every post he made. Not that he made all that many anymore. But they only knew the name John Watson because of his association with Sherlock Holmes – and not all that many people cared about Sherlock Holmes now, either.

John slammed his laptop closed again, running a hand tiredly over his face. Sherlock Holmes was a name that many people had erased. They had thought he'd been great, but then it was revealed that he was nothing but a fake. Pretending to be a genius. John scoffed at that. _Pretending? _There was no way anyone who had actually met Sherlock could ever believe he was just pretending to be that intelligent. It just wasn't plausible. Well, some of them did, but John couldn't see it. Sherlock was genuinely the most incredibly intelligent person John had ever met and he felt others should know that. But most of them believed the papers, those articles written by people like Kitty who were just greedy for a story. None of them actually cared about the truth, and most of them would never know just what an amazing individual Sherlock had been. It annoyed John to no end that barely anyone believed in Sherlock, that such a great man could be overlooked because of the greed and jealousy of the people around him.

He hated most people these days, barely bothered to talk to a lot of them. Every now and again he would get someone in at the surgery that would know him from his blog and ask him about Sherlock (who they all seemed to agree didn't seem as bad as the media had made him appear). John usually refused to comment on his opinion of the detective when these people came around; he was never sure what to say. He just smiled, told them he was dealing well after his friend's death, and returned the conversation to whatever health issue they had. It wasn't always easy to fend questions off, but these people were rare and that made it a little easier.

John grabbed a book and got into bed, knowing he wouldn't be sleeping but wanting something to distract his mind. Tomorrow, he decided, I will go down to Scotland Yard with those case files and mention my search for a new flat mate. Maybe Lestrade would know someone.

**xXxXxXx**

Late in the morning John was awoken by his phone ringing. He was still in a sitting position on his bed, novel open before him, neck and back aching like all hell. He immediately regretted his decision to stay up and read, even if it was quite successful as a method of distraction. Blearily he reached for his phone, not even checking the caller ID as he answered.

"'ello?" Urgh, he even sounded as if he just woke up.

"John, sorry, didn't mean to wake ya." Lestrade.

"Oh no, that's fine. Sorry. What's going on?" John was getting out of bed as he spoke. He tucked the phone between his ear and his shoulder as he pulled the covers up on his bed and tucked them tidily, sweeping a hand atop the covers to smooth out the creases.

"We've got a case here you might wanna take a look at. I know you don't have that much time but frankly, I'm stumped. Maybe you'll be able to shed a bit of light on it for us." Lestrade sounded a little unsure, like he usually did when he called John for help. He knew John wasn't like Sherlock, he didn't get overly excited to show off his intelligence, he just wanted to help out and keep something of Sherlock alive while doing so.

John nodded, even though Lestrade couldn't see him. "Sure. I was actually going to head down to Scotland Yard this morning to return some things that Sherlock seemed to have kept. What's the address?"

Lestade chuckled. "I'm there now, if you want to bring the stuff. We can go to the crime scene together."

"Sounds good," John agreed, "I'll see you there."

After he hung up, John pulled out some clothes and changed – light jeans and a white t-shirt with a green cardigan over the top. He took a few minutes to wash his face and teeth, grabbed the files and headed out the door. Mrs. Hudson wasn't anywhere to be seen as he made his way out, but that wasn't all that unusual. He hailed a taxi and told the cabbie that he was heading to Scotland Yard. The path was one he'd taken a million times, both with and without Sherlock at his side, and it passed quickly.

He headed straight for Lestrade's office, like they had always done. No one bothered to say anything to him – everyone there knew who John Watson was. He knocked sharply on the door and after a "c'mon in" from Lestrade he did just that.

Lestrade hadn't changed all that much in the whole time John had known him. He sat at his desk at the moment, obviously waiting for John.

"John. Sorry for waking you up this morning." Lestrade stood and made his way around the desk. "I've been at this bloody crime scene all morning and I can't make heads or tails of it. Maybe you could help?"

John shrugged. "I can try. Oh, and I have these." He set the files on Lestrade's desk. "They're all just case files, ones you'd obviously dropped off to Sherlock and he never bothered to return them. Either that or he stole some of them."

"Thanks for that," Lestrade skimmed the top one, "Did he have them all hidden from you?"

"Oh no, I just hadn't bothered to clean his stuff up. He had a lot of rubbish, must have been hoarding it for years!"

Lestrade laughed at that. "He seemed to do that a bit, eh? How you ever lived with him I will never know."

"It wasn't easy," John admitted and they both laughed. After a few moments John went quiet, eyes on the floor before raising them and training them on Lestrade. "Actually, I need to find a new flatmate," he admitted, "I'm working so much but I just can't keep up with it all. If you find anyone looking, do you think you could…"

"Let you know? Yeah." Lestrade watched him for a few more moments. "You don't have to keep doing this, y'know? I know it's not easy to let go but-"

"I want to," John said quickly, "It's not all to do with Sherlock. I like helping. I can't just not do it, it's kind of ingrained in me by now."

Lestrade barked out a laugh at that, lightening the tension that had formed in the office. "I think that's the reason we all keep at it," he grinned. "C'mon, let's go."

John followed Lestrade outside where they took a police car to the scene. It wasn't a very long drive and on the way Lestrade described the case they were looking into. The victim was Thomas Jennings, 20 years old. He was a local university student, pretty typical run of the mill guy. Average grades, well-liked by his peers, only other relative was a sister that lived on the other side of town. He'd been found floating in the university swimming pool. John filed these details away in his mind in case he'd need them again, nodding while Lestrade talked.

When they arrived they were greeted by a young man by the name of Patrick Hill. John knew him vaguely – he was pretty new around here, a little inexperienced, but he had a good head on his shoulders. He was pretty tall, dark hair messy and hazel eyes bright as he walked toward them. "John! Good to see you," He grinned, reaching to shake hands with John.

At the same time Sally Donovan exited the building, completely ignoring John's presence as she headed to Lestrade and started filling him in on what they'd found. John and Patrick watched as Sally deliberately placed herself between John and Lestrade so that her back was facing John, blocking him from the conversation. John was used to this treatment by now, but Patrick scowled at her on his behalf. He also noticed Lestrade glance at him apologetically as he headed inside the building, calling for John to follow over his shoulder.

"Why does she do that?" Patrick questioned once they had disappeared inside.

John just shrugged, though he knew perfectly. "C'mon, we better follow."

Inside was a large pool, several officers standing around and chatting. A few more were still looking at the body that had been pulled from the water and now lay on the poolside. John headed over to that group, Patrick trailing him.

"Ok guys, back up!" Lestrade called to the group as John approached. The people crowding the body shuffled away a little, though they all stayed close enough to watch John. "What do you think, Dr. Watson?"

John didn't answer as he looked, trying to see what Sherlock would see. He snapped on a pair of rubber gloves that one of the men handed him. First, cause of death. It had obviously happened sometime the previous night. He knelt down to get a closer look. There were mottled dark bruises around the throat – strangulation? But… he turned the man's arm over. Track marks. So he was doing drugs and had been strangled and dumped in a pool? The bruises on the throat didn't look like finger marks or rope. Some kind of cloth? He didn't doubt that it was that which had killed him. From the marks on his arms John could tell he'd been doing drugs for at least several months. Did that mean his death was drug related? He was wearing boxer shorts and a loose t-shirt - pyjamas, which meant it was likely that he was attacked in his own room. There wasn't much else he could get from the body; any other evidence that could have existed was likely destroyed by the water.

He stood, glancing around the large room. There was nothing out of place, nothing in particular that stood out. The water was shifting slightly, reflecting the lights and creating a glittering effect. He looked down the length of the pool toward the door, and for a second he could see a figure emerge. Dark hair, light steps, smug smile. Moriarty. John remembered all too well the last time he was at a poolside, though he remembered very little of the pool itself. He could still picture perfectly the look of shock on Sherlock's face when he emerged from the cubicle and revealed the bomb strapped underneath his jacket. He could almost feel the vest on him again and quickly ran a hand down his front just to make sure it wasn't there.

After a few moments he shook his head slightly, turning to find everyone watching him. "Sorry," he turned to Lestrade. "Do you think we could see his room?"

Frowning a little, Lestrade nodded. He led John outside and toward the dorm building, Sally following. "So, what do you think?"

John shrugged. "I'm not that good at this, Sherlock would probably already have the guy's life story. I know he was strangled and dumped in the pool, but it looks like the attack didn't happen there. He was into drugs – there are track marks on his arm dating back to at least four months. And he was still in his pyjamas so he was more than likely attacked in his room."

Lestrade nodded at the explanation, easily able to follow how John had drawn these conclusions. The two climbed one set of stairs and walked down a hallway, taking a left before coming to number 18. The door was already open, a couple officers searching the room. "Guys," they both looked up when Lestrade spoke, "This here is John Watson, he's just gonna have a look around so don't get in his way."

The two men looked between Lestrade and John for a moment before nodding in agreement and moving out of John's way. John gave a quick nod to Lestrade before concentrating on his surroundings. The room was a mess. The blankets were bundled at the end of the bed, a pile of shoes kicked under the end. There was a small bedside table consisting of an iPod, a set of keys and a wallet. Beside that was a pile of dirty clothes, strewn underneath the slightly open window and a little under the desk. The desk was surprisingly clean, with only a small laptop set in the centre. The chair, however, was on its side. John stood still, trying to picture the scene.

"His keys are still here," he spoke aloud, "So he wasn't meaning to leave at all. Did you move anything?" He turned to the two men, both of whom shook their heads. "Ok, well…" He paused, glancing around. Everyone was watching him. How had Sherlock done this? It was a little intimidating. He really had no clue, but he felt as though he'd done nothing for the case so far. He could see all the details of the room, the way everything was set. What did it mean? How could he pick out what details were important and figure out what they meant? He looked around, trying to put it all together. The mess on the bed looked like any other young man's, but the clothes? They looked like they'd been kicked over. A scuffle? He checked the window and found that it was stuck in that position, it didn't look like it'd been moved in a long time. He checked the door – no sign of forced entry. The assailant was invited in? "The door," he said aloud at last, "No sign of forced entry, so it looks like he invited whoever did this inside. Does that mean it was someone he knew?"

Lestrade nodded, watching John as he walked around the room. John started on the desk next, quickly opening and closing the drawers. Most of them were empty. He couldn't tell if there had been anything in them, but they had possibly been empty for a long time. He turned back to Lestrade. "Sorry, I think that's all I got. Maybe if you talk to his friends? He probably knew the person who did it and they might have some idea."

"Will do," Lestrade said, "Thanks for coming to have a look, it really has helped."

John looked relieved at that and he nodded in thanks to Lestrade. The two headed toward the door together, forcing Sally to step out of the way. They were both silent as they made their way through the building and stepped out into the fresh air.

"So, any ideas?" John asked.

Lestrade shrugged a little. "Not yet. I think we'll talk to his friends first, like you said."

John nodded. "Sorry I couldn't be of more help, I feel like I should have watched more closely when Sherlock was doing his thing. Maybe I would have learned something more to help out."

"You learned plenty," Lestrade said, "Even without him you're better than most of the force. That's why I still call you in for cases like these. And you're definitely easier to get along with."

John couldn't help but laugh at that. "That's not much of a challenge," he agreed, still giggling slightly.

"It wasn't his winning personality that got him any friends, was it?" Lestrade laughed along with John as they headed across the grounds back toward the pool.

Just outside John decided it was time for him to leave. He'd said all he had to say about the body, he didn't know what else he could do there. "I better be off," he said just before Lestrade entered. He stopped and looked back at John. "I should really get back and clean out the rest of the flat before I wimp out," he explained.

Lestrade nodded in understanding. "You wanna come out with some of the guys tonight?" He questioned, as he usually did.

John barely paused. "I don't think so, sorry."

Lestrade just nodded, already having expected the answer. It had been John's answer every time he'd asked for the past year. "Alright, I'll talk to you later?"

"Yeah."

As John walked back toward the main road Lestrade headed back inside. He was immediately approached by Patrick, who he'd known for the past eleven months. "What did he say?" Patrick asked.

Lestrade shook his head. "He can't, he's busy."

Patrick growled in frustration. "Why does he never come out with us?"

Lestrade smiled sympathetically. All Patrick wanted was to get to know John, a man he saw as a role model. But John didn't see that – he was too busy trying to hide from everything, still mourning even a year after his loss. "He just has other things on his mind," Lestrade provided as explanation before he walked away.

Patrick watched him walk away, frowning in confusion.

"He used to come out all the time," one of the other men said – David.

"Yeah?" Patrick turned to him. "What happened?"

David shrugged. "His best friend died. Everyone found out he was a fake and he threw himself off a building."

"You knew him?" Patrick asked, "You didn't like him?"

"Everyone knew him but no one really liked him, except Watson and Lestrade. Guy didn't have many friends, wasn't really the type. Him and Watson were really close though, never saw one without the other."

Patrick looked back toward the door, a frown on his face. "How long ago did this happen?"

"Uh, maybe about a year or so, I think," the man said, turning back, "Don't even bother trying, Watson doesn't know what he's doing any more."

Patrick looked up sharply at the words, but David was already walking away. He couldn't help but think some people were unnecessarily cruel to John considering he was such a nice man. What kind of a man could his best friend have been to make people treat John in such a way, even a year after his death?

**xXxXxXx**

John had to be at work at the surgery early the following morning, so he'd set his alarm just to make sure he would be awake in time. He couldn't stave off several yawns as he pulled his clothes on groggily, blinking slowly to try and clear his bleary vision. He'd been up late again the previous night, simply unable to sleep. He'd cleared the rest of the flat early in the afternoon and had been left to meander the rest of the day away, trying to keep himself occupied. He still couldn't help but feel foreign in his own home now; it was missing so much now that he had tidied Sherlock's belongings.

Everyone at the surgery was polite, proper. John hated it. They all knew he'd had many issues with the death of his best friend, and it was as though they were all walking on eggshells around him. They were cordial. It was disgusting. When he walked in the secretary, a woman by the name of Joanne, gave him a wide smile and said a perky, "Good morning Doctor Watson."

"Morning," John grunted back, heading straight to his office. He set his things against the wall out of the way and sat back in his chair, sighing at the relief he felt. This room was familiar, never changing. It was completely different from 221B Baker street, and it felt good.

"Morning John!"

John jumped, spinning in his chair to see Sarah sticking her head in the door. John smiled back at her tiredly – he really liked Sarah, she was the only one here he made an effort with. Their relationship hadn't ended on bad terms, unlike many of the others, which was definitely a blessing for his job's sake. "Sarah, good morning."

"How are you going today?" Sarah asked, stepping into the room. "I know you must get that question a lot. Sorry."

"No, that's fine. I'm fine. A little tired maybe, but I'm used to endless nights of no sleep."

Sarah laughed, knowing all too well what that meant. She remembered just after John had started, when he'd fallen asleep at his desk after an all-nighter on a case with Sherlock. It had been cute, she'd thought, picturing him propping his head up on his hand. "You'll be fine for today though, right?" She asked.

"Yes, of course," John said quickly.

"Oh good," Sarah smiled, "I have to leave early today, go pick up a friend from the airport."

"Visiting, are they?" John asked, pleased with himself. He was making conversation, something he didn't do all that often these days. Overly polite conversation maybe, but it was something.

Sarah grimaced. "Unfortunately not. Cooper just broke up with his girlfriend, so he's planning on moving to London, he's just got to find a place to live." John nodded along, partially feigning interest. "You don't happen to know anyone looking for a flatmate, do you?"

John, who had been zoning slightly didn't register the question, but noticed that she'd stopped talking and was watching him. "Huh? Sorry, what?"

"Do you know anyone looking for a flatmate?" Sarah repeated.

"No, sorry, I-" John paused. "Wait, I am actually."

Sarah raised an eyebrow. "Really? Would you like to meet him? I can bring him around tomorrow if that's good for you?"

John grinned. "Sure, sounds good."

Once Sarah had left and the door was closed behind her, John remained where he was. He blinked a few times after her, frowning. He was meeting a potential flatmate tomorrow. Tomorrow. That was soon. That was very soon. Was it too soon? John ran a tired hand over his face. He'd only decided two days ago to even consider getting a new flatmate – he hadn't had time to find a place for Sherlock's things, he still couldn't even picture himself living with anyone else, allowing someone new into the flat. His home. Their home. Why did it feel so strange to think that soon 221B Baker Street could also become home to someone else? It wasn't right. He didn't want to share it.

John spun around on his chair to look out the window. Cooper – that was what Sarah had said his name was. What would Cooper be like? Would he be anything like Sherlock? Unlikely. No one was like Sherlock. He was the most unique person John had ever met, never another like him in the world. But could John picture him taking Sherlock's place in the flat? Would he be okay with someone sleeping in Sherlock's bed even a few days from now? Using their kitchen, sitting on their sofa, being in their home. His and Sherlock's. Did he know anything of Sherlock Holmes? Would he understand why John kept all those books? Why John washed anything in the kitchen both before and after he used it, why he sometimes hummed classical music and kept that violin in the corner even though he had no clue how to play it? Did John even care if he understood?

He took a deep breath, glancing at the clock. Just about time for the day to start. It wasn't much use, he figured, worrying endlessly about a potential flatmate he'd never met. He tried to force himself to consider the possibility that this flatmate might be a good thing, might actually help him deal with everything. It didn't work though. Nothing could help with the fact that Sherlock was gone and he wasn't ever coming back. John had kept that hope for a long time – that it was just another genius plan of Sherlock's and that he was faking it all for some reason. But he'd been forced to admit that it wasn't possible. Sherlock wouldn't do that to him. He couldn't. They were best friends, Sherlock cared, and if Sherlock cared about John as much as he thought he did there was no way he could go on letting John believe he was dead.

No, nothing could fix the fact that his best friend was dead, but maybe it could be made easier. John spun back around to face the door and called in his first patient for what would be a very long day.

**xXxXxXx**

**So, chapter two. How'd you like it? It turned out a little (okay, a lot) longer than planned, but well… I just wanted to get up to Sherlock's return… but no. NEXT CHAPTER!**

**Thank you again to KokoMini for her awesome beta work, even though she's been so busy. She still has yet to watch Sherlock, but I think I'm turning her ;) So leave a review and let her know how much she needs to watch it!**


	3. The Flatmate

**ONLY TEARDROPS**

**DISCLAIMER: I don't own Sherlock, or anything else you could possibly recognise :)**

**WARNING: Johnlock. Don't like it, just don't read it ;)**

**I apologise in advance for the fact that this in un-beta'd. KokoMini has been very busy lately so she hasn't had a chance. Still, I didn't want to leave it too long. So, here you are. Leave a review when you're done and let me know what you think ;)**

**CHAPTER THREE: THE FLATMATE**

**xXxXxXx**

_I waited for you today_

_But you didn't show_

_No, no, no._

_I needed you today_

_So where did you go?_

_You told me to call,_

_Said you'd be there_

_And though I haven't seen you_

_Are you still there?_

_Never Alone – Barlow Girl_

**xXxXxXx**

John didn't sleep at all that night. He spent the hours sorting through all of Sherlock's belongings again, trying to decide what to do with it all. Most of it was spent looking through the notebooks, trying to decipher Sherlock's loopy scrawl, or just thinking. He had a few boxes set up around him, where he placed a lot of the items. Some he would move to his own room, some would remain in the living area – damn whatever his new flatmate thought. Some, though, he had nothing to do with. Would Mycroft want any of it? He would have thought the man would have just come and taken anything he wanted, if there was anything at all. Maybe he'd rather take it than John gave it away. Or maybe he just didn't care – that seemed more like Mycroft.

Then there were his clothes. They were all the wrong size for John – Sherlock was much taller and thinner than John. Still, he felt as though he couldn't just give them all away. They were of expensive taste, collared shirts and slacks, coats, scarves and his several dressing gowns. His socks were still perfectly indexed. John didn't end up getting all that much done that night, he simply sifted through Sherlock's things and thought.

Putting Sherlock's things in boxes felt like saying goodbye again. How many times would he have to say goodbye to this man? He'd thought he was saying goodbye at the funeral – that's what they're for, isn't it? He'd thought he'd be able to say goodbye. Oh how mistaken he was. John glared at the floor – here he was, a year later, and still hanging on to the memory of a man he'd lived with for a too-short period of time. He'd been to war, yet this was the hardest thing he had ever done. It just didn't make any sense!

John slowly sorted through the notebooks, flipping through pages and reading passages – sometimes pages. After only a few pages he was settled, reading desperately, word-for-word. The words, so properly articulated and in that haughty tone… It was almost as though Sherlock were back with him. He could almost hear the man saying the words… almost. It took him re-reading one line several times before he realised why it didn't feel quite right.

He couldn't recall what Sherlock's voice sounded like.

As soon as it hit him, he froze. He remembered that his voice was deep, his words pronounced articulately, spoken quickly and with full confidence. But he couldn't recall. He couldn't hear the man speaking in his own mind, couldn't close his eyes and almost imagine that the detective was back. He read frantically, trying to capture that sound, somewhere, somehow. He read for hours, hearing the words in a tone that could have been Sherlock-like, but was it his voice? Wasn't his voice a little deeper? A little warmer? Something so much more…? He just couldn't remember the particulars, no matter how hard he tried.

It was the early hours of the morning when he confused himself about the colour of Sherlock's eyes. Were they blue? Grey? Blue-grey or grey-blue? How long was his hair? How did it curl? What side did his lips always twitch to when he gave that genuine smile? All the little details were fading in his mind. He rushed to his room and rooted through his drawers, looking for a photograph to reassure him. He pushed papers and books out of the way frantically, focused completely.

It was at the bottom of the top drawer. A single photograph of Sherlock – the man wasn't smiling, in fact he looked exasperated. John giggled slightly at the sight. He hurried back to the study where he had all of Sherlock's notes and set about studying the image.

His eyes were a grey-blue. John frowned at them. In his mind they'd been… dull. How could he have forgotten that spark? The shine of intelligence, of mirth, of endless curiosity. That expression that constantly said 'I know something you don't know'. And of course he always did, John thought. He spent a long time studying the photograph, trying to press the little details further into his mind. He still couldn't remember what side his mouth twitched up at, or the exact sound of his laughter, but it was something.

Before he knew it the day was growing light outside the window. As the light reached him he glanced up. It looked to be a clear day ahead. The light flooded into the flat, illuminating the mess John had made while rummaging through things. It was completely trashed! John smiled for a moment. It looked like home again – he could almost picture Sherlock lying on the sofa, or striding in the door, or standing by the window, violin in hand. It was these things, the little things, which he didn't want to forget. He didn't want to even allow himself to let them start to fade.

He had to talk himself into getting up after only a few moments. He had to tidy the flat again, he couldn't leave it all over the place, especially when he had guests coming over. Guests. He hadn't had them in a long time. Greg used to drop by the check up on him, and even Mycroft had come a few times in the months following. But they'd stopped coming around in the past few months.

Hours later, everything was packed away neatly in boxes. He'd piled the boxes to the side of the room, still undecided about what he was going to do with them. Sherlock's violin remained in its case by the window, many of his books remained in the bookshelves, but it was still too empty. Once it was all done John retreated back to his room so he didn't have to sit in that too-large, empty space.

**xXxXxXx**

Cooper was… nice. There was no other word for it really. He felt himself smile as he imagined what Sherlock would say. Agreeable, dull, tiresome, boring! He was ordinary, cordial. Usually John would find nothing wrong with the man – in any other situation they may have actually been friends. But the moment the man stepped in the door John disliked him.

He was too short. He wasn't as short as John, so he figured he really should have no right making that comment, but he was certainly shorter than Sherlock had been. He was tanned – only slightly, but it was still too much in John's opinion. His eyes were brown, dull, the colour of dirt. He was slightly built – not slim, but more like John himself. His smiled a lot, his too-thin lips stretching into a tight-lipped expression. His smile didn't reach his eyes.

John had come to these conclusions only moments after meeting him. He hadn't heard the doorbell when it had gone off so Mrs. Hudson had to escort him up the stairs to the flat. John could hear he coming up the steps, chattering on to the man about who knew what. When they came into the flat the man was smiling politely. Fake, a Sherlock-like voice snapped in John's mind but he ignored it.

"Ah, here he is," Mrs. Hudson cut herself off, "John! This is Cooper. Sarah had to head off to work so I promised to bring him up."

John nodded. "Thanks Mrs. Hudson." He watched as she loitered for a few moments, as if looking for an excuse to remain in the room, before giving up and heading back to her own flat. Once they were alone John focused on Cooper, scanning him over. He didn't like him.

"Hi John," Cooper smiled widely, offering a hand. "It's great to meet you. Sarah was telling me a lot about you on the way over here – it's great that someone she knew is looking for a flatmate, I don't know what I would have done otherwise. I don't want to bother her with my presence too much."

John took his hand with a firm grip. "Yes, well, wonderful to meet you. Tea?"

The two settled at the table with two cups of tea. John watched Cooper, they were both silent. It was strange for John to be feeling so awkward in his own home, but he simply brushed it off and returned the man's smile. "So, have you ever lived in London before?" John asked after a few moments.

Cooper set down his cup. "Yes, actually. I went to school here, hated it at the time so as soon as I could leave I was gone. I'm thinking it won't be so bad this time." He leaned back. "What about you?"

"Spent a while in Afghanistan before I got discharged. Couldn't really afford London but I could never bear to be anywhere else," he explained shortly.

"Ah," Cooper traced a finger around the lip of his cup, "Hence the flatmate. How long have you been living on your own now?"

"Just a year." John shifted, gaze flickering to the doorway and then the clock. "So, what is it you do?"

"A little bit of this and that. Freelance work mostly. You're a doctor, right? You work with Sarah."

"Right."

"What did your old flatmate do?"

John froze. His opened his mouth but no sound came out. He closed it again. _What did your old flatmate do? _It was an innocent question, nothing John could fault the man for. There was no way he could have expected John to react so strongly. It was a simple wondering of a curious man. John stared at him as Cooper frowned, unsure of what he'd done wrong.

Nothing, John thought, he'd done nothing wrong. It was a question that should not affect him so strongly, not after so much time had passed. It had been a year. A whole year. Why could he not even talk about this yet?

"Sorry, I-"

"No," John cut him off, voice quiet, "Its fine. He was a detective – consulting detective, he called himself, the only one in the world. He invented it." He smiled wryly at the memory of Sherlock saying the exact same thing when John had asked not long after he'd met the man.

"Detective, eh? That would have made life interesting."

John laughed at that. "Yes, it was certainly never boring. At the drop of a hat he'd be dragging me out on some case, or suddenly out of nowhere proclaiming he'd solved it. Life was never dull with him around."

"What happened?"

"W-what?"

"You speak about him so highly," Cooper clarified, "Just his mention made you both sad and happy at the same time. If he was so important why isn't he here anymore?"

John stared. Immediately an image of Sherlock on the edge of Bart's roof came to his mind, phone in hand. John could almost hear him again.

_Goodbye John._

John bit his lip, taking a deep breath and trying to blink the image out of his vision.

"I… I'm sorry," he shook his head, "I can't…" He stood abruptly and rushed to the kitchen. He leaned against the counter, trying desperately to correct his breathing. This was NOT the time! He raised a shaking hand to his face, rubbing at his eyes. It was a simple question! Why did it affect him so strongly?

Yes, Sherlock had been an important part of his life. Hell, he hated to admit it, but Sherlock had pretty much _become _his life. Since they had met, Sherlock had become so ingrained in John's very existence. He was constantly running after the man, whether to simply fill in for Sherlock's skull, to help him out with a case (deal with human interactions) or to save his life, he never minded. No, he enjoyed it. Without that, he didn't know what to do. He worked at the surgery, and they seemed to like that he was much more reliable now, but John missed the unpredictability, the adrenaline, the chase.

But it was more than that. He missed knowing that when he came home from work, or shopping, or a walk, that Sherlock would be there. He would always be there. John missed the constant text messages during a work day, everything from case details to complaints of boredom. Sometimes he just stared at his phone, willing it to light up with a message. It never did.

"Are you okay?" Cooper called from the living room.

John stared at the doorway for a few moments, almost expecting him to be standing there. He wasn't. John took a deep breath and nodded to himself before walking back out to his guest.

"Sorry, I just… I have some stuff to do. I'll call you?" He didn't want to seem like he was kicking Cooper out of his flat, even if that is exactly what he was doing. _Can't do this if you're living with the guy_, he thought.

Cooper nodded, standing. "Sounds good."

They bid their goodbyes at the door and it was with a flood of relief that John closed the door behind him. He felt increasingly lighter as he made his way back up the stairs, glad to be alone again. As he entered the flat he felt like he was walking into a stranger's home, definitely not his own. It was so bare, open, impersonal. The boxes piled by the couch seemed to be screaming at him. They didn't belong there. They didn't belong anywhere. The contents weren't supposed to be packed away.

Before he could stop to think about it John crossed the room and grabbed the top box. He opened the flaps and took a moment to stare at the contents. Notebooks, newspapers, books. They were all stacked neatly inside, almost taunting him. John glared, bit his lip and up-ended the box on the floor. He grinned at the mess. That was much better. He immediately went for the next one, and the one after that. Each box was dumped unceremoniously around the flat – on the desk, the kitchen table, the floor. He didn't care that it was in the way, it was supposed to be there. It should always be there. 221B wasn't home without Sherlock.

Sherlock. John paused, looking around. It wasn't like messing the place up would bring him back. No, that wasn't possible. All he was achieving was undoing the work he'd already put in, and this was not dealing! He set the now empty box in his hands down, moving slowly across the room to sit at the kitchen table.

John practically collapsed into the chair, rubbing his palms into his eyes. He didn't know what he was doing anymore. Who was he supposed to be without Sherlock? Was he supposed to live a quiet life? Treat children and old people at work, spend his nights watching telly or out with some mates, only read about crimes in the newspaper? He couldn't imagine it, not anymore, not having experienced what life could be. Not without Sherlock.

John took a deep, rattling breath. Why was it so hard? He'd been fine before he'd met Sherlock – fine, not fantastic, but surviving. Now, he didn't even know how to do that! His breath caught in a sob, but he swallowed it. No, he couldn't do this. Not now.

It took him a few moments to be able to breathe again, and when he could he pushed himself to his feet and stormed back to the living room. The first pile of books he came across he kicked. Hard. They went spilling all over the floor. But John didn't care. He stormed to the desk, the window, and back toward the fireplace. That was when it caught his eye.

That skull. It still sat on the fireplace – he hadn't even thought about moving it when he'd been packing. Now it seemed to be staring at him, judging him. He rushed to grab it off the mantle, looking at it closer. Yes, it definitely seemed to be watching him, mocking him. Was it possible for a skull to laugh? John growled, using all his strength to throw the stupid thing into the fireplace.

There is smashed, a thousand tiny pieces. It only took a moment for John to realise what he'd done and the guilt almost swallowed him. He sank to his knees slowly before the broken pieces, another sob rising.

"Was that really necessary?"

John's head snapped toward the door, his sob catching.

In the doorway stood Sherlock Holmes.


End file.
